


The Little Lionness: Myrcella Oneshots

by KylaBosch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaBosch/pseuds/KylaBosch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> A series of character studies based on my Head!Canon of Myrcella Baratheon (Lannister) that both follows the books and the possibilities of ‘What if/AU’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Lionness: Myrcella Oneshots

 

**Of Wolves and Lions Part 1**

Myrcella’s Kingly father was deep in his cups when he called her over to him at the great feast table. The young girl quietly joined his side, ever eager, and hopeful too. Her father never had much interest, or time for his only daughter yet young Myrcella loved him as any child loved their father.

 

With a sad smile, the drunken king reached out touch a strand of her long blonde hair. The child held her breath as she wondered what was going through her father’s mind. Her uncles, Jaime and Tyrion, often said she had a smile that lit up the room. So Myrcella gazed up at her father and smiled her sweetest smile. With baited breath she wondered if her septa had told her father about how she wrote a full sentence all by herself. Or that she was now able to read the simple message her great uncle Kevan had sent on her name day. Myrcella was well advanced for a child of five years of age; with a good understanding of reading, writing and numbers. She hoped Father would be proud of her for being such a good student. The thought made her heart race with joy, for it was a rare thing for Father to speak such words to Joff and her.

 

‘You were never meant to have been born of lion’s blood,’ he said instead, with a heavy sigh. Young Myrcella knew not how to respond. ‘Stags and lions make poor bedfellows,’ he muttered to himself. Uncertain what her father meant she simply stared up at him in confusion.

 

‘You were meant to be born of wolf’s blood,’ he continued in sorrowful tones. ‘You’re too good for those yellow-haired shits. You may look a lion, child, but your heart is entirely a stag’s. Never forget that, child. Never!’ he pressed on. ‘Gods willing, you will one day marry one of Ned’s sons then my descendants will finally have wolf’s blood in them.’

 

Myrcella was excused soon after from the feast table. She departed for her chambers, with a head full of questions and a heart heavy with disappointment. All she wanted was for her father to be proud of her, to know she was his little princess.

 

No gods would ever change a lion’s coat into a wolf’s pelt. It was Robert’s greatest disappointment, and Myrcella’s greatest shame.

 

 

**Ripples**

‘I just don’t know what to do with the princess. She is a bright young thing, yet such a clumsy girl,’ Myrcella’s septa despaired to another one of the princess’s handmaidens. ‘Doesn’t have her mother’s grace that one; such a shame, for she certainly has her beauty and her wit!’

 

It was not Sandor’s place to eavesdrop but it was difficult not listen in when the old hen clucked so loudly even the dead could hear her.

 

Most who served the princess believed the girl to be clumsy and without grace. The bruises and cuts hidden beneath her gown was evidence enough of her lack of poise. However, the Hound knew the truth; he also knew enough not to speak of it. Not with Joffrey as King, or his Queen mother in denial to the idea that her favourite son would ever intentionally harm his own blood.

 

Myrcella was not the only one who had become the boy-king’s practice dummy. The little bird too, had become Joffrey’s latest, broken toy. Though he paraded his cruelty with Sansa for all to see, he was far more mindful to keep his younger sister’s abuse well under wraps. A good dog misses nothing, and Sandor was too familiar with sibling brutality to ignore the signs.

 

 _Promise me you won’t tell mother! Promise me Sandor!_ Myrcella would beg him whenever he caught the boy unleashing his fury on his little sister. The child need not plead with him, for Sandor knew his place. He was a lone Hound, amongst a pride of lions. One wrong move and they would not hesitate to tear him from balls to brains, if only to make their point clear. Sometimes Sandor wondered if the servants of his father’s Keep felt just as trapped whenever they caught sight of Gregor unleashing his hells on either their little sister or him. Such thoughts always left him consumed with rage.

 

As much as he wanted to destroy the little beast, the Hound refrained. A dead dog was of no use to anyone, least of all a certain little bird and a blonde princess. However, when the young prince grew too vicious in his attack, Sandor knew it was within his rights to step in and demand that he find another toy to break. That was before Joffrey became king. Now as the ruler of the seven kingdoms the boy felt no need to pay heed to his favourite pet.

 

Sandor watched on as Myrcella convinced her septa that she had fallen while playing in the gardens with one of her friends. The old woman had noticed the princess was favouring her right arm. In truth, the child’s shoulder had been recently dislocated after a particularly vicious attack by her older brother. The rest of her arm fared little better. The Hound was no maester but he knew enough from serving in battle how to tend to the girl’s shoulder and arm without causing further damage. As always, he spoke of it to no one, for what good would it do?

 

Escorting Myrcella back to the main solar as per the septa’s instruction, the Hound finally broke his silence. ‘You should tell your mother about all this,’ he rasped, once they were alone.

 

‘What do you mean?’ Myrcella was a poor liar, though she did try so hard.

 

 _’Most likely got it from her father’_ he mused in disgust. ‘Don’t play me for a fool. This will only get worse, child,’ he growled in annoyance. The princess was as naïve as the little bird.

 

‘I’m fine, Sandor. He was just frustrated that I got in the way, I deserved it,’ the princess softly said. ‘And you promised not to tell mother!’ she quickly added in concern. Her eyes pleaded silence, but Sandor’s patience for Joffrey’s needless cruelty was wearing thin.

 

‘Prove it,’ he challenged. Myrcella attempted to extend her arm, careful to hide her pain. Frustrated, he grabbed the child’s arm, careful not to harm her further, just strong enough to make a point. She cried out in shock and pain, causing him to scowl in disgust. ‘A dog can smell a lie, princess,’ he warned. ‘And someone will find out for true.’

 

Myrcella, normally calm, looked on the verge of blind panic. ‘Sandor, you can’t tell mother! You promised that you wouldn’t!’ she pleaded. ‘Promise me that you won’t!’ she begged, fighting back the tears that came to her eyes. When he looked upon her, Sandor no longer saw the cocky princess he once knew, but a broken child. Despite her royal upbringing, Myrcella reminded him of another little girl he once knew; one who lost her life at the hands of their older brother.

 

Breathing a heavy sigh, Sandor let the matter drop. Myrcella was right the Queen was in far too much denial to see even the most obvious of signs. ‘No princess, I won’t tell your mother,’ he agreed. It did not mean that he would not tell someone else.

 

Two days later, while in a drunken state, Sandor confessed the truth to the little bird. That night she chirped her song to her trusted handmaiden, Shae, who in turn told her lover, none other than Tyrion Lannister. A fortnight later, he learned of Myrcella’s sudden marriage arrangement to the Prince Trystane Martell of Dorne; much to the queen regent’s rage.

 

Though his part had been small, it gave him a sense of relief. If a dog could help a lion cub break free from her prison, perhaps one day he could help a little bird break free from her cage too.

 

**A Hound's Advice**

Catching sight of the Hound wandering alone in the halls of the Red Keep, Myrcella knew her chance had come. It was not often she saw the scarred warrior both sober and not accompanied by her brother. The young princess was not about to let this opportunity slip, not with time running so short.

 

Calling his name, she then picked up her skirts and ran to his side. Mother would not have approved of her unladylike behaviour, but the Hound never minded. Breathless and flushed she faced him with all the poise she could muster. A queen does not make requests, she commands, her mother would have said had she been there. Myrcella was no queen, and Sandor was no servant, no matter what Joff or even her mother would believe; he was her friend.

 

'Tomorrow I am to be sent to Dorne to marry a prince I have never met. What words of wisdom can you give me, Sandor?' she asked in plaintive tones.

 

The giant man stared at her in disbelief before frowning, causing his burned lip to twitch. 'I'm no bloody maester, princess,' he rasped, in dismay.

 

'No,' she agreed. 'But you are the closest thing I have to a mentor—to a friend,' she said, attempting to sound more mature, like her mother when she was amongst her royal advisors.

 

'What wisdom do you want from me, girl? I'm not your father. Nor will I ever be,' he exclaimed.

 

Having about enough of his foul attitude, the young princess frowned up at him. 'Well if you were a father, what would you tell your daughter had she come to you for advice?' Myrcella challenged.

 

The scarred man went very silent then. Briefly, Myrcella wondered if she had made the right decision, going to him for advice. Then Sandor met her gaze, his grey eyes oddly wistful, perhaps even sad.

 

'My grandfather was a good man, unlike my shit father. Used to always say, 'A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face.' Those are the words I would tell you to live by.'

 

In all her life, Myrcella had never once heard Sandor speak of his family. The advice given was a sharp contrast to the _wisdom_ she had been raised to believe. With a sincere smile, and a polite word of gratitude, the princess parted ways with the scarred man. His words were already put to memory.

 

Years later, in the midst of harsh truths, scandals, and exposed lies, Myrcella found herself considering Sandor's words often. As a child she could not fully fathom the wisdom behind his advice to her, as adult its meaning was entirely clear.

 

With sacrifice, there comes reward. With truth, there comes power. With respect and wisdom, there comes a ruler made worthy of their throne.

 

Following the wizened words of an old dog, Myrcella ruled Dorne alongside her husband, prince Trystane, till the end of her days. Though baseborn, and too pure a Lannister by Westerosi standards, Myrcella Martell would forever be remembered as one of Dorne's most respected and beloved rulers.

 

 

**The Reunion**

Jaime never expected to see his daughter again. A painful, if not apt, punishment for the sins he had committed.

 

Myrcella stood before him; an elegant, tall yellow-haired beauty, with bright eyes of green, and lips that never ceased to smile.

 

Only she was not these things.

 

A long scar, partly hidden behind her long hair marred her porcelain skin. Her eyes once shining with joy carried an undeniable weight. Her lips no longer wore the smile of innocence, but the mystery of all unspoken.

 

Jaime could only imagine what she saw when she looked upon him; a cripple, a grotesque, an incestuous kingslayer, and a tired old man.

 

‘Father?’

 

A single word spoken in hope, and Jaime’s world threatened to come undone.

‘Father! It does my heart good to see you again after so long!’

 

To his surprise, it did his heart good too.

 

Gone was the shadow of his deceased sister; in her place was the vibrant young girl he once called _daughter_ in dreams alone. She smiled at him, and even her scars could not mar her perfect beauty. For all daughters are flawless in a father’s eyes.

 

Frozen in place he stood, as so many words caught in his throat. The water that collected in his eyes remained unshed as her arms wrapped tightly around him.

 

His only daughter was alive and well; there was little else that mattered.

 

 **Author’s Note:** Fallingtowers wrote a brilliant piece called [The Key to Good Eavesdropping](http://jaimexbrienne.livejournal.com/78639.html) that could easily act as a prequel to this piece. Though its written neither from Jaime, nor Myrcella’s perspective it really sheds light on the complications of this reunion.

 

 

**Hard Truths**

 

Myrcella was a woman grown, a wife, a dornish princess, and a Martell by marriage. Jaime Lannister was a liar, an oath breaker, and an incestuous cretin whose shadow, not unlike her mother had nearly crushed everything, and everyone, she loved. Yet in her father’s presence she was every bit the little girl she had once been. Gone was the blissfully ignorant nine year old who believed in the goodness of men and silly notions of the truth setting you free. Only a guarded young princess remained; one who wanted nothing more than to shed her lion’s skin for something better suited to her person.

 

‘Do you really hate us so much?’

 

Standing proud before one of the many balconies that decorated Evenfall Hall, Myrcella stared ahead into the pouring rain. Behind her at the entrance to her chambers, Jaime Lannister, her birth father, watched on. He sounded almost jovial as he questioned her hatred of their family; the disgust she bore at the idea of being a pure-blooded Lannister. She knew better, only a fool could ignore the weight behind his question.

 

She remained silent in contemplation. Were it anyone else she would have simply laughed and lied. However much she believed that she hated him, Myrcella could still not lie to the man. She may have been born a lion, but she had been well schooled by an unwitting Hound, and dogs never lie.

 

‘Yes,’ she answered.

 

The sound of his heavy footsteps fading into the hallway said more than any words could.

 

 

**Of Wolves and Lions Part 2**

 

It was many years later, when Myrcella recollected the last discussion King Robert had with her before he died to her real Father. No longer troubled by the dead King’s drunken statements, she merely laughed to the memory of how sorry Robert had been to his _daughter_ being born of lion’s blood. Jaime Lannister, by contrast, had not found it nearly so amusing. ‘Such a clever man, death by boar was far too noble an end for the likes of him,’ he replied in brisk tones.

 

‘In his own way I think he meant well,’ Myrcella said with a wry smile. ‘I’m glad I was not born of wolf’s blood,’ she continued, her eyes drifting to the snow covered terrain of Winterfell.

 

‘Trystane likes to say, that everything happens for a purpose. I may be too pure a Lannister than any would find acceptable, but I believe this is for a reason as well,’ she gently explained.

 

Her father raised a brow as he chuckled. ‘Really? It’s a bit too late to prove to the Westerosi that lions have more than shit for honour.’

 

 

Myrcella frowned. ‘If needs be then yes. All of Westeros knows the Lannisters pay their debts but so few have seen any real proof of it beyond coi, and vengeance. I mean to change that, that is why I came to the north,’ she concluded with a sad smile.

 

Princess Myrcella Martell intended to start with the Starks of Winterfell. They were but one of so many innocent houses who had been wronged by her family. By Dornish tradition she was Trystane’s wife, a princess by all standards. To the rest of Westeros, Myrcella was an abomination; a Lannister, and a baseborn. It may be too late to undo the damage done, but it was never too late to make reprimands, to apologize through action.

 

So she travelled north, leaving Trystane back home. _’It is a private matter, one that must be settled one way or another,’_ she explained to her husband. Her princely husband understood all that she could not say and she loved him all the more for it. With a passionate parting kiss, and words of love on their lips, she departed from the safety of Dorne to begin her secret journey north. It was months since they last spoke. Though her heart ached for his company, Myrcella knew this had to be done.

 

Upon her arrival to Winterfell, she was surprised to learn that her birth father, along with his wife; a brutish, strange beauty who was as much a knight as himself, now called the north home. Myrcella soon came to love Lady [Ser] Brienne of Tarth more than she had her own birth mother.

 

Lady Brienne, as called by those more traditional, now served as lord commander of Queen Sansa Stark’s queensguard; Ser Jaime too had joined their ranks. Casterly Rock, once under her grandfather’s care, now belonged to her uncle Tyrion, who served as the Dragon Queen’s Hand.

 

The North, though loyal to the dragons, sought to maintain their sovereign realm. Though Queen Daenerys was not fond of the notion, her nephew, turned consort, had convinced her of the wisdom in leaving the North to its own leadership. True to her word, Queen Sansa and her Hound King, as the small folk lovingly called him, maintained good relations with the southron kingdoms.

 

Having already visited Kings Landing a year prior to swear fealty to the Iron Throne alongside her princely husband, Myrcella felt no need to return just yet. During her visit she had been reunited with her brother Tommen. The last time they had seen each other, she was a young girl sailing off to Dorne, and he was little more than a small boy mourning her absence. It did her heart good to know he was alive and well; now serving under Ser Selmy’s tutelage as a squire. Tommen too, shared her hopes of undoing the damage of their forefather’s actions. Despite all he had witnessed and endured during their mother’s reign, her little brother was still a romantic idealist at heart.

 

With his kind heart and gentle nature, he was rapidly gaining the respect and adoration of those who both trained, and served alongside him. Knowing her brother had found a safe place under the dragon queen’s rule, Myrcella had felt the time had come to make reparation to the north. Uncertain how to make amends she did what she could to earn their forgiveness. Food and supplies would not bring back the dead, but they would ensure the living survived the harsh winters of the north more comfortably. The gesture though, miniscule by Myrcella’s standards, had left a mark on the North that was not soon forgotten.

 

It would be many years before their houses would come to regard one another as allies, much less friends, but she did not mind. It was as her step-mother Lady Brienne once said _Nothing comes without sacrifice; everything that is worth anything, must be properly earned._

Though making amends to those wronged by her family was a difficult journey, she never felt more at peace for it. She may have been born a lion, but in her heart, Myrcella knew she was so much more. There was a reason she had been born a Lannister, and for the first time in her life she now understood why.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author’s Note:** This is a collection of one shots written a while back to enable me to explore Myrcella without the obligation or responsibility that comes with writing a full out tale.  
>  Some of these tales have been posted prior but at the suggestions of my amazing beta-reader I compiled them into one collection for those whom (like myself) love Myrcella may get their fill.  
>  **Disclaimer:** All this belongs to GRRM.  
>  **Beta Readers:** As always a huge thank you to the lovely Onborrowedwings/Weshallflyaway for helping me make this work! Your help and wisdom is always greatly appreciated.


End file.
